“Here, stop undermining me in my dog’s affections!” protested Antony. “That pup has no use for me while you’re around.”
“Dogs and I are natural pals,” said Kit, releasing the puppy. “The trolley leaves on the even hour, Tony; we’ve got to get right out after it.”
Warned by a shrill whistle they ran for their car from the corner. They made it and established themselves on the platform, lighting up their cigars and recovering breath.
“Dogs and I do get on,” Kit reverted. “I like them, though that’s a fool remark. Most men do.”
“Not all, though. How they keep off it beats me,” said Antony Paul. “When you want to say the best possible things about a man you attribute to him the qualities every good dog has, but not every good man, or men who are accounted good by themselves and others. Loyalty, fidelity, generosity, forgivingness, hero-worship, unfaltering love, patience, admiration, confidence—these are the things every good dog gives us. And intelligence! What a fine dog doesn’t know! It’s amazing the way they understand you. I had a dog once, the best comrade a fellow could have asked. When I——”
Kit knew what happened when people started on anecdotes of their pets. He ruthlessly interrupted Antony.
“Yes, I know; that’s the way I feel about dogs,” he said. He turned and knocked his cigar ashes over the end of the car, carefully, as if the trolley platform were carpeted.
“But you know, Antony,” Kit continued the conversation with his own end in view, “a lot of people seem to think it’s all poppycock to look for things like that in humans. People, experienced people, you know, whose opinion ought to count, tell you it’s sentimental to insist on—well, on marrying for love, you know. They say take a nice girl, a suitable girl, one that isn’t going to get on your nerves, of course, and marry for expediency. They say that this kind of an arranged partnership holds out better than the kind that is not arranged, that flies, so to speak, a winged thing from the start. What do you say about it? You’re married to the nicest sort of a girl; of course you fell in love with her; any one would love Joan Berkley, but you’ve got sense, and by this time you must have perception of what various sorts of marriages could be. What do you say? Do you think it’s better to go in for romance? All decent young chaps have a leaning toward it, I think.”
Antony looked at Kit sharply.
“As a rule, Christopher, my son, you are not given to abstract speculation. What’s up? Or don’t you care to tell me?” he said.